


Honky Tonk Moon

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Rooms to Let [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Contract Hunting, Anal Sex, Angel Castiel, Angels, Angst, Blow Jobs, Confessions, Demons, Gay Dean Winchester, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Object Insertion, Road Trips, Switching, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12978150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Three months into his sudden and heated relationship with Castiel, Dean finds himself driving across the country from hunt to hunt, like it's always been. At least, until an Angel nearly runs him off the road in the middle of Wyoming, with a mission for the both of them—to find a demon that's been terrorizing a Montana community for weeks.A routine hunt, or so Dean thinks. In the aftermath of a near-fatal knife wound, though, comes confessions, and from confessions comes a reality Dean's not quite ready to face yet. But as long as Castiel is by his side, he'll throw himself headlong into their future together, because that's what boyfriends do, right?Right?





	Honky Tonk Moon

Somewhere around Cheyenne, Wyoming, the Impala’s heater begins to sputter, and quite honestly, Dean could care less. Autumn is quickly fading into winter, and in the rearview, dust scatters on a barren two-lane; the few trees along the side of the road have already lost their leaves, pounded to mulch and fluttering with every car that passes. Only a few clouds litter the sky this early in the morning, the sun just above the horizon, painting them in reds and yellows, slowly shifting to blue.

It’s a perfect winter day, complete with a brisk chill flowing through the open windows, and Dean has an Angel at his side, who’s currently rifling through a plastic ‘Have A Nice Day!’ bag. “I know it ain’t that hard to find something,” Dean scoffs, drumming his palms on the steering wheel. “C’mon, what you got?”

“Ace of Base, Dwight Yoakam, and something called 98 Degrees.” Castiel pulls out a cassette tape with two fingers, cracked and well-worn around the edges, displaying every teenage girl’s dream—and, admittedly, Dean’s as well. “I don’t see why you couldn’t buy CDs. They’re much more practical than having to wind the tape every time you want to replay a song.”

“Because it’s vintage,” Dean whines, thumping his head into the headrest. “And I can’t afford to switch the electronics in this. Lucky I don’t have an 8-track machine.”

“These seem to be coming back in style,” Castiel comments. He turns his attention to the bag again, eventually settling on a tape featuring a man in a jean jacket and a cowboy hat, looking contemplative. “There were several at that store we visited in Seattle.”

God—the next time he has to pay ten bucks for a cassette, Dean might flip. “It’s all fake,” Dean shrugs. One handed, he takes the tape and pops open the case, exchanging _Hysteria_ for _Guitars, Cadillacs_. “Mass produced stuff, you gotta buy a tape deck just to play it. You want the real stuff,” he stops to tap the empty case on Castiel’s jean-clad thigh, “you gotta go to used shops.”

“Or yard sales,” Castiel jeers. Dean just rolls his eyes. “The one we visited, their daughter was quite the collector of stuffed animals.”

Dean shakes his head, still in disbelief. Crossing the backroads of America, he can always manage to find at least a few yard sales, and with the last of his cash, he’ll always take something off of people’s hands, just to put money back in their pocket. The signs for the Chugwater community yard sale started popping up five miles from the city, and the minute they stopped through for gas, Castiel had bolted from the car before Dean could even stop him.

At least he got some tapes out of it. Castiel, however, walked away with a stuffed Persian, now lovingly held in his lap. “I can’t believe you made me buy you a cat.”

“Her name is Rosie,” Castiel chimes, propping his feet up on the dash. “Hit play.”

Side two starts with the album’s namesake, and the guitar immediately takes Dean to a diner almost ten years ago, the song only a few years old at the time. Now, it’s old news, but Dean still finds himself singing along to every word. Sure, his parents raised him on classic rock and blues, but there’s a collection of twang hidden under the backseat, none of which he’s bothered to break out in the three months that Castiel has been by his side.

First time for everything, probably.

What he doesn’t expect, though, is for Castiel to start singing along after the first chorus. Whether it’s an Angel thing or he’s somehow already heard it before, Dean doesn’t know, but he flushes with pride when their voices sync, and he beats his hands on the steering wheel. Castiel drums his thighs while they speed down Route 85, no traffic in their way and the world at their fingertips.

God, this feels good, Dean thinks, reaching over to take Castiel’s hand in his. Castiel threads their fingers together and holds him tight, warm in the early winter chill. To this day, it still floors Dean how hot Castiel burns, like his skin can barely contain him, always managing to bleed through somehow. Here, it’s with their palms joined between them, Dean with a hand on the wheel and Castiel’s resting on the window jamb.

A steady, circular glow catches Dean’s attention after he switches to side one of the tape, and what Dean initially passes off as a roadside oddity or a trick of the light—he’s seen some of the country’s weirdest monuments over the last few years—soon becomes glaringly apparent that it’s not supposed to be there. No matter how fast they drive or how many signs they pass, the object never moves. It just floats, lingering close to the road but never passable. Not in their rear view, not even visible in the side mirrors.

Castiel must notice it too, but he doesn’t speak anything of it. Dean glances over once, just to see Castiel’s reaction; what he finds there is scrutiny, soon turning to realization, then to horror. “Dean,” he eventually shouts—

Then it moves, crossing a few miles’ distance within half a second, and Dean barely has time to hit the brakes before it stops in the middle of the highway. The Impala fishtails and slides off into the dirt, and both Dean and Castiel cling to whatever they can find before the car eventually pulls to a stop, half in the road and half in the shoulder. No damage; hopefully, none of his tires popped and nothing ruined the undercarriage. “Holy shit,” Dean breathes, a hand to his chest. He’s alive—they’re both alive. “Holy shit, Cas—”

But Castiel isn’t paying attention to him. No, he’s looking through the dashboard at a giant wheel-in-a-wheel, maybe thirty feet high and wide. Every inch of it, down to the seamlessly crafted spokes, is composed of turquoise and gleams in the sunrise, emitting a steady drone as it floats a foot off the ground, just… sitting there. Not menacing, just resting.

“What the fuck,” is all Dean can say, his hands still shaking with adrenaline, heart in his throat. Because not only did he just force his car to a stop from ninety miles an hour, but he just avoided hitting a giant wheel. In the middle of nowhere. “How high am I?”

“You’re not high,” Castiel says, a bit wary. “It’s an Angel.”

An Angel—how was this supposed to be an Angel? It looks more like an eighteenth-century experiment in a wood shop, not something supposedly holy. But then again, Castiel would know more, being one himself.

On shaky legs, Dean exits the Impala and steps onto the concrete, just a few inches from the Angel’s closest wheel, all immaculately polished and smooth, radiating enough heat to make his nape sweat. Castiel follows, slower and more cautious, rounding the back of the car to stand at Dean’s side.

Carefully, Castiel reaches a hand out and skirts his fingers over a wheel with wonder in his eyes, mouth agape. “This isn’t possible,” he breathes. Honestly, Dean can’t help but think the same. An Angel, really? “They’re not supposed to come to Earth without a vessel.” Turning, he cocks an eyebrow at Dead. “And you’re not supposed to be alive right now.”

Terrified, Dean laughs, barely smothering it in his fist. “What, am I not supposed to see some giant… wheel thing?”

“I’m saying,” Castiel huffs, “that witnessing an Angel in its true form should burn your eyes from their sockets.” Blindly, he reaches for Dean’s face, his fingers prodding at Dean’s eyes repeatedly. “You feel fine.”

“You poked me in the eye,” Dean complains, pushing his hand away. “Last I checked, I wasn’t blind.”

“Remarkable,” Castiel replies, awed. “Touch it.”

Dean balks, looking between Castiel and the wheels. “You want me to what now?”

“It’s asleep,” Castiel says. “This is a Throne. They’re very friendly.”

Friendly, right—the thing just tried to run them off the road, but it’s friendly. “You’re serious,” Dean says, not really a question. At his side, Castiel nods and takes Dean’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “What if it, I don’t know, attacks me or something?”

“Throne’s aren’t warriors,” Castiel says, lifting their hands. “Unless you attack them, they won’t bother you. They’re gentle, look.”

Before Dean can even think to stop, or explain to Castiel how bad of an idea this is, Castiel presses Dean’s bared hand to the Angel. All at once, along the exterior of every wheel and the spokes, hundreds of blue-green eyes open, and the Angel hums to life, the drone growing louder, more pleasant than static but even more disconcerting. In fact, there might be nothing to hear at all; maybe it’s just residual, a vibration in his ears faking him into believing that there’s noise.

Even more impossible, is that the wheels begin to rotate in opposite directions, seemingly molding into each other where they join, no end and no beginning. A fire burns at its core, blue and white, like gas.

Dean’s head hurts. “Jesus Christ,” he moans, rubbing his eyes with his free hand, the other still cradling the Angel, the wheel gliding smoothly against his palm. “I’m serious, am I on something?”

“No one ever said that Angels made sense,” Castiel chirps, mirthful. If Dean weren’t too busy trying not to puke, he might punch Castiel. “Who are you?” he asks, this time to the Angel.

Strangely, the eyes blink, almost lovingly. “Castiel,” a voice resounds from no mouth, reverberating in Dean’s skull. It doesn’t sound like anything, neither male nor female, nor robotic; he can’t think of a word to describe it, other than ambient noise formed into words. Dean’s bones hurt just from listening. “I missed you, my brother.”

Softly, Castiel smiles, holding Dean’s hand tighter. “Leliel,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

“You look squishy,” the Angel—Leliel; apparently it has a name—speaks. Dean’s eye twitches. “Who is your human?”

At that, Castiel grins even wider, all teeth. “This is Dean.”

He offers Dean’s hand, forcing their fingers around the outer curve of the wheel, and Leliel pulses, flooding Dean’s veins. Not too different from when Castiel has healed him in the past, but this feels even brighter, like he’s being caressed from the inside and stitched back together atom by atom. Amidst it all, Dean feels at content, at peace. It shouldn’t scare him as much as it does.

“Your human is squishy,” Leliel comments. All Dean can do is laugh, near hysterically, as he comes down from the high and Castiel guides their hands away. “Your absence has not gone unnoticed. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

“I’m better than that,” Castiel hums, bumping Dean’s shoulder. Dean, meanwhile, can’t look away, still enamored that he’s standing in front of an Angel, and that said Angel just flushed his system as a greeting. At least his knee doesn’t hurt anymore. “Dean has been taking care of me.”

“Cas,” Dean whines, earning another smile. Discussing any of their relations in front of an Angel is grounds for getting thrown into Hell, right? Or does it not count when Castiel is the one doing the bragging?

Leliel regards Dean without scrutiny, all of the hundred eyes gazing down at him from every angle. Even clothed, Dean feels exposed, like Leliel can see him down to his soul—hell, they probably can. “I’m not here for idle chatter, unfortunately. Another time,” Leliel begins, their tone shifting from nonchalant to menacing at a moment’s notice. “Myself and two others have been sent to track down a demon.”

“A demon?” Dean repeats. His blood warms unpleasantly, and between them, Castiel takes his hand.

“A strong demon.” Leliel nods, their entire form shaking in something akin to agreement; to Dean, they look like they’re attempting to roll away. “We’re unaware of their whereabouts, however. Six souls have been reaped, but they were tainted with hellfire at the time of their departure. We believe it to be the work of one of Lucifer’s former legion.”

 _Great_. Just what Dean has always wanted, to associate with someone related to Lucifer. “But what’ve they been doing?” Dean questions, shifting his weight between feet. Out of fear, his heart races, and just barely does he resist the urge to keep his eyes to the ground. “I haven’t seen any suspicious deaths lately, and especially demonic.”

“Because they’re being categorized as natural deaths,” Castiel suggests. Again, Leliel nods, their eyes rotating even faster, too disorienting to follow. “But you’ve seen their souls?”

“The Cherubim have been charged with preparing them for their abode in Heaven. Until they’re cleansed, they are to remain in the veil.” Leliel hums, reverberating through Dean’s skull. If only it didn’t make him want to simultaneously leap for joy and hurl. “They’re good souls, youthful souls, but you can see our predicament, Castiel. If you can find the demon, you must destroy them. Rare as they may be, their terror must not continue to spread.”

“I understand,” Castiel says, blinking slowly at the innermost wheel, the fire there glowing bright green, shifting slowly to purple. God, this is too weird. “Where did their souls depart from?”

“A city called Livingston, Montana,” Leliel supplies. “You can see our concern, those deaths in a place that small. If the humans start suspecting, we would hate to intervene.”

“Wait,” Dean sputters, because—intervene? Would Angels really intervene over a demon wreaking havoc? “You’re not gonna get rid of the town, are you? That’s—You can’t do that!”

“As I said.” Leliel rotates onto their side, their innermost fire continuing to blaze towards the sky. “We do not wish to intervene unless we have to.”

“You’ve never taken a vessel,” Castiel says, taken aback. With narrowed eyes, he glares at Leliel, taking a step towards them. “Would you really murder scores to stop the life of one? You, Leliel, out of all of the Angels.”

They may’ve been standing in the middle of a barren road for five minutes, but even now, Dean still can’t comprehend Leliel’s size or existence, and he especially can’t understand how Leliel physically shrinks with Castiel’s accusation, their fire nearly extinguishing in… shame, or embarrassment. _Angels are terrifying_ , Dean decides—terrifying and apparently huge.

“I don’t like to kill,” Leliel admits, quieter now, down to a level Dean can listen to and not want to jam a knife through his brain. “I want to help. You must help me, before another innocent dies. Can you help?”

Steeling his shoulders, Castiel confirms, “We’ll do our best,” and yanks Dean back a few steps, far enough out of the way for Leliel to evaporate into the fabric of space itself, nothing but a wingbeat and a large, leg-sized feather left in their wake.

All at once, the weight of the universe leaves Dean’s shoulders, abrupt enough for his knees to buckle and his stomach to twist violently, his breakfast threatening to rise. Castiel strokes down his spine while Dean struggles not to heave on the pavement, bent over with his hands on his knees. Overhead, the sun beats down, and a breeze begins to blow across the plains. An Angel—Dean just met an actual, honest-to-God Angel in its purest. He may have known Castiel for three months, but after witnessing miracle upon miracle, this is the craziest thing he’s seen in his life.

“You really are remarkable,” Castiel says after Dean finally manages to stand, Dean leaning against the front quarter panel and Castiel planted firmly between his feet. Unblemished hands stroke Dean’s cheeks, drawing life back into his skin, and Dean wants nothing more than to melt into him, to give himself over to the warmth. “No human has ever perceived an Angel in their true form before.”

“Really?” Dean manages, swallowing thick around his tongue. _Just breathe, keep breathing_. “No one deserves that kinda punishment.”

“You’ll adjust over time,” Castiel soothes, running a hand through Dean’s hair. Incrementally, his headache lessens, a side effect of having Castiel’s Grace on hand, always there when he needs it. Granted, some things, he needs to recover from on his own, but for now, he’ll take whatever Castiel offers. “Your eyes could’ve burnt to cinders just seeing them.”

“Don’t know which’d be better, this or that.” Dean attempts to laugh, ending up somewhere close to a cough. God, he needs a drink right now. “If it’s all the same to you, next time one of you pops up, please find a body? I don’t think I can take it.”

“We’ll hope it doesn’t come to that.” Castiel smiles. He continues to stroke Dean’s face, easing his fingers down to the base of his skull, where it aches the most. A stinging chill sweeps through Dean’s body, and Dean moans, unashamed at how good it feels, just to have Castiel’s hands on him, to have his Grace caressing every inch of his body, soothing down to his soul. “I knew you were special,” Castiel whispers, sneaking in a kiss. “I just didn’t know how much.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, a hand over his heart. “Guess I am.”

-+-

“There’s this guy, he’s kinda weird,” Susanna tells Dean and Castiel while they wait for their order at McDonald’s that evening, her red hair covered with what has to be the rattiest beanie Dean has ever seen. “He’s been coming in here the last week or so and chats up all the women. I swear, if my boss would let me, I’d call the cops, but Johnny keeps saying the guy’s homeless, and he can’t turn him out in this weather.”

“What makes him weird, other than being overly-friendly?” Castiel asks, chewing on a stir stick with a hand in his coat pocket. “Has he attempted to abduct anyone?”

“Cas,” Dean hisses. Castiel ignores him.

“That’s the thing,” Susanna says, looking up at the ceiling briefly. “He goes after girls, and he’s always got the same story, that his car’s broke down in the Super 8 parking lot and he can’t find the wrecker service. It’s literally right next door, dude, y’know?”

 _That’s gotta be the dumbest excuse in the book_ , Dean thinks, covering his eyes. God, it’s way too late in the evening for this—all he wants is dinner, but apparently, cheeseburgers come along with a side of disgruntled McDonald’s employee. At least she’s helpful; the minute he and Castiel stepped foot in the restaurant dressed in black suits and flashing fake badges, Susanna came running with a story to tell and more than enough suspicion for them to go off of.

“That sounds ridiculous,” Castiel says, stir stick back in his mouth. “He obviously isn’t blind.”

Sometimes, Dean really wishes he had a filter.

At least Susanna agrees with him, her eyes wide, hands on her hips. “I know, right? Just because he’s homeless don’t mean he can’t read. Anyway,” she waves a hand at them both, her rings flashing under the fluorescent lighting. “None of the girls ever go with him, but I’ve seen him follow ‘em out. Then the next day, I see them dead on the news, and I keep sayin’ to Ronnie, how many of our customers are gonna have heart attacks before the cops think we’re poisoning people?”

“I don’t think you’re poisoning anyone,” Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Not intentionally, anyway—whether they choose to eat this crap is up to them. “But I do think the guy has something to do with it.”

“That’s what I’ve always thought too,” Susanna echoes. “So what’re we talking here, aliens? Shapeshifter, demons?”

Castiel cocks a brow, oblivious to Dean nearly swallowing his tongue with Castiel’s reply, “A demon.”

Susanna slaps a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. “I knew it,” she squeals. “He looked like one, y’know? With the little beady eyes and—”

“I think we have what we need, ma’am,” Dean says abruptly, a hand to Castiel’s bicep. “If you have a description, that’d be great, but we need to—”

“Oh, right.” From her pocket, Susanna pulls out her cellphone and thumbs her way through her photos app, pulling up a rather clear shot of their target. Abnormally tall with a scar over one eye, shaggy black hair, and his cashmere jacket full of holes and patches. In a town with barely five thousand people, he’s awfully recognizable, not even bothering to blend in with the rest of the residents. “He hasn’t come in yet, he normally shows up around ten or so? Maybe if you waited until then, you could catch him? Just please, do something, because one of my friends from school has already gone missing, and I just really don’t want anything to have happened to him.” She covers her mouth, gasping. “You don’t think he’s already dead, do you?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Dean assures, but only vaguely; if her friend actually had been taken, there’s no telling what’s happened to him overnight.

“We’re staying at the Super 8,” Castiel blabs unhelpfully. “I’ll keep watch, since my partner is too warm-blooded to stand in the snow for long.”

“Oh my god,” Dean complains aloud. The cashier calls his name from across the restaurant—finally, he can get out of here before Castiel and Susanna start chatting about God knows what while he’s gone. Thankfully, Susanna leaves to man the registers just as a sudden throng of customers pours in through the doors. “Guess we got in town at the right time, huh?” Dean motions to a table at the back of the restaurant, cheap plastic tray in both hands.

“Considering the sounds your stomach was making in the car, I fear if we had to wait any longer,” Castiel chimes. Dean snorts, and together they hole up in the corner, windows at their backs.

Street lamps light the dark, snowy roads of Livingston, headlamps passing on the residential roads and illuminating snowflakes; a few more hours and the roads will be impassable, at least according to the television near the register, a meteorologist droning on about total accumulation while huddling in her windbreaker. Their hotel is only a few steps away, but food takes priority over huddling in their room, especially given the looks Castiel has been shooting him all day. Nine hours in a car next to an Angel with a perma-erection isn’t doing Dean’s hunger any favors.

Castiel has calmed down now, though, the urge to jump Dean’s bones apparently replaced with shoveling a McRib in his face. If Dean were any sort of aroused before, his libido is definitely dead now. “You got some,” Dean mentions, pointing at Castiel’s face.

Castiel just licks his lips, belatedly reaching for a napkin. “Do you think she really believes it’s a demon,” he asks, returning to his coffee between bites. Why he needs caffeine at almost eight in the evening, Dean has no clue. “Or was she suspicious because of his appearance?”

“Hell, the way things are in the world right now, if I were a girl, I’d be suspicious of anybody coming in with that lame ass excuse.” Dean shrugs, unwrapping an eerily appetizing barbecue bacon burger. “You recognize the guy at all?”

“Not particularly,” Castiel mumbles around his food. “I fought part of Lucifer’s legion, but they weren’t in vessels at that time. The true faces of demons are everything you would expect from interpretations, but worse.”

Dean inhales three fries before bothering to reply. “How much worse is worse?”

“It’s definitely not dinner conversation.” Castiel shakes his head. “He’s not as Leliel suspected, though. He’s just a demon, and a low level at that.”

Good—that’s fantastic if it’s true. Dean can deal with regular demons, and with the blade Castiel gave him, he can hopefully dispatch them with greater ease. Exorcisms only work half the time; if he can kill the source, then no one has to worry about another possession. “How can you tell?”

“Lucifer’s followers bear an insignia on their foreheads.” Placing his sandwich on his wrapper, Castiel points between his eyes, fingers sticky with barbecue sauce. “It’s part of a headdress that covers their eyes, to keep them from combusting after witnessing an Angel. If anything, he’s just here to kill.”

“And you can see that? Just from a picture?”

Castiel nods, licking his thumb. Apparently he hasn’t cooled off, after all. “We shouldn’t have to fight too hard. His vessel is currently deceased, so you don’t have to worry about killing an innocent.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” Dean says. Castiel smiles before stealing his fries, chewing while he looks out the window. “You wanna head out tonight then?”

If anything, Castiel’s grin turns into a downright lecherous smirk; all of the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. “Maybe after you’ve fucked me into the mattress.”

Dean chokes on salt and beats on his chest, and Castiel just laughs.

-+-

Somehow, the sound of Castiel’s moans has never grown old, not in the least. Especially when all he can do is gasp Dean’s name and claw at the sheets, begging for a reprieve he doesn’t want. “You like that?” Dean manages through a moan, drawing an arm around Castiel’s front and tugging him closer, his chest pressed against Castiel’s back, every inch of skin suffocatingly close. “You like my dick?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Castiel grunts; a shiver runs through his body, and Dean thrusts again, keeping up the pressure against Castiel’s prostate, until all Castiel can do is muffle his pleasure into the pillows. Reaching back, he grabs the meat of Dean’s thigh, and Dean only thrusts harder, chasing his own release just as quickly. “It’s not even that good.”

Dean laughs, swatting Castiel’s ass open-handed; Castiel’s back bows and he shouts, and only by a miracle does Dean keep himself from coming just from feeling Castiel clench down, viselike around his cock. “You’re asking for it,” Dean hisses. One-handed, he reaches out to grab Castiel’s wrists and holds them tight, keeping him pinned to the mattress, completely at Dean’s mercy. “Fuckin’ take it—”

The air around Castiel always sizzles when he comes, reminiscent of licking a nine-volt battery, but across Dean’s entire body. Though, coming without help is a new one, his cock still straining when Dean reaches down to fist it, gathering the last of Castiel’s come into his fist. “You like that?” Dean asks again, releasing his grip on Castiel’s torso and shoving him hard into the mattress. Castiel goes willingly, still shuddering and mouthing incoherencies into the bedspread. “Cas, you gotta talk to me.”

For a long moment, Castiel doesn’t respond; not until Dean threatens to pull out, at least. “Use me,” Castiel huffs, his knuckles blanching into the sheets. “I swear to my father, if you don’t fuck me—”

The resulting thrust shuts him up, much to Dean’s satisfaction. Castiel is even louder now, his release foregone and his body limp in Dean’s grasp. If this is what it feels like, to lay claim to an Angel, then it’s heady and intoxicating, and he aches with want and lust. Someone is banging on the motel wall, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing Castiel down by his shoulders and fucking in as hard as he can, until his hips strain, and Castiel’s fingers leave bruises in his thighs. All the while, Castiel goads him, begs for Dean to come on him, in him, anywhere he can.

All Dean can do is oblige. He barely has the forethought to pull out before he does, ripping off the condom and coming across the swell of Castiel’s ass, his spend dripping into his cleft, over his rim and down to his perineum; Dean smears it in with his fingers, shoving two inside just to feel how warm Castiel is, his ass still clenching with the loss.

For a long while, they don’t leave the bed, despite the congealing mess between Dean’s thighs and the stains Castiel is no doubt laying in, not that Castiel seems to care much either way. Idly, Castiel stretches, placing both hands on the headboard and digging his toes into the rumpled sheets, all the while groaning until his spine pops. God, sometimes Dean really does find him endearing.

“You’re thinking,” Castiel murmurs, blinking slowly. Dean swallows, and for a brief second, he wonders if Castiel can read his thoughts. “You’re worried about something.”

“I worry about a lot of things,” Dean shrugs, pushing himself off the bed. The bathroom is only a few steps to his left, but even beyond the door, he can still feel Castiel’s gaze on him. From the rack, Dean wets a washcloth in the sink and wipes himself down, tossing it atop their growing pile of towels on the floor afterwards. The second rag, he throws to Castiel on the bed. “Gotta be more specific than that.”

Pointedly, he doesn’t watch Castiel clean himself off, but Dean does settle for kissing him while he does, his presence just as intoxicating as the sex. Sometimes, just being close feels just the same, a rush he can’t replicate, no matter how hard he tries. Sex isn’t necessary, but it’s fun, and if anything, Castiel thrives on it, his existence boiling down into touch and touch alone.

Castiel reaches out to stroke Dean’s face, his fingers still wet from the washrag; said rag ends up somewhere near the bathroom, direction unseen. “You’ve been tense since Leliel left,” he says, and— _oh_. Right. “You haven’t talked about it, but I need to know. Have you had experiences with demons in the past?”

Reluctantly, Dean nods, pulling the covers up over his shoulder. Not as comforting as he would like—the sheets are too scratchy and thin—but it eases the tremors running through him, all-encompassing. “Just a few,” Dean admits, turning his eyes to the blankets. “I’ve never gotten possessed, thanks to this.” He pats the sigil inked onto his chest, a five-pointed star surrounded by the flames of the sun. “But I’ve watched other people, and how their lives were ruined because they couldn’t forget what happened. Demons… lie, and cheat and kill, just for kicks, and these people’ve gotta go home at the end of the day and act like nothing happened. If they make it in the first place.”

“Demons are brazen,” Castiel murmurs; Dean can’t argue with that. “But they’re also unpredictable. I could be wrong, and it could be the Devil himself, and what would you do then?”

“Panic, probably,” Dean shrugs. “But you’re here, with me. I mean, hell, two’s gotta be a lot better than one, right? I’ve got your blade, and you got that badass sword of yours.”

Castiel smiles ever so slightly, his eyes slipping closed. “I worry for your mortality sometimes.”

“I’ve been through worse.” Dean grins, reaching over to cup Castiel’s shoulder. Admittedly, it’s not the best excuse, but it’s the truth, one he’ll bear until he dies. He’s not immortal, not like Castiel, but while he’s alive, he can at least save people and bury the ones who couldn’t make it. “Look, I’m scared too, okay? It’s okay to be freaked out, but we got this. You hear me?”

Slowly, Castiel nods, but there’s a weakness to it. Never once has Dean seen Castiel afraid, especially over a demon, and never again does he intend for Castiel to feel that way. Looking at him now, Dean could mistake him for human, if not for the power crackling beneath his fingertips. If only he weren’t so innocent—if only he weren’t so untouchable sometimes, so holy.

“I just worry,” Castiel sighs. He turns his head ever so slightly, his eyes distant, and Dean can’t help but cup Castiel’s cheek in his palm. “I’ve grown… tremendously attached to you during our time together. I can only bear to see you hurt so many times.”

And really, Dean understands. Though Castiel has to witness Dean bleeding week in and week out, Dean is the one who has to bear it, has to stitch himself back together and pop painkillers until it stops hurting. Castiel may knit the worst of the mess back together, but Dean can still feel it, can see the monsters in his nightmares, can imagine the blood on his hands.

“I’ll be okay,” Dean promises.  Slowly, Castiel covers Dean’s hand with his own, dovetailing their fingers. “Why does this bother you so much?”

“Why doesn’t it you?” Castiel asks in return.

For once, Dean can’t answer him, and his heart aches with the silence they share.

-+-

Three miles down Meigs Road at the northeast corner of town is a cabin rental that looks suspiciously like a suburban home shoved in the middle of the field. Said cabin, as Dean finds out, smells entirely of sulfur and features deer mounts on the walls, their racks contaminated with enough blood to set off every alarm.

Murder house—always lovely. “Housekeeping’s gonna hate this,” Dean grouses.

“The guest book has glowing reviews,” Castiel says, a thick leather-bound book in hand, the pages sopping wet at the edges.

“Come on, that’s gross,” Dean admonishes, but Castiel ignores him, skimming his finger down the bloody pages. “There’re other things for you to do in here.”

“Susanna Lee said she saw a bear one morning, and one threatened to eat their Chihuahua,” Castiel reads. “Dogs are too fearless for their own good.”

After that, he places it gently on the table and, reaching behind his back—or into his wings, no doubt—pulls out a four-foot blade, forged from Heaven’s celestial gate and embellished with gold inlay. The handle, composed of solid gold, fits easily in his hand, his fingers having formed grooves in the leather wrap over the years.

Swallowing, Dean looks Castiel over, then back to the blade, then to Castiel again. He looks good like that, plains clothes and all, but brandishing the most intimidating weapon Dean has ever seen—and Dean has seen a lot. “When were you gonna show me that?” Dean asks, hoarse, his own blade almost a toothpick in comparison. Granted, it’s Castiel’s blade in the first place, but still. How many more does he have laying around?

“I didn’t think I’d ever find a place to use it,” Castiel shrugs, hefting the blade towards the back door, the tip laying atop Dean’s shoulder. Immaculately sharpened, glimmering in the moonlight—if Castiel wanted, he could kill Dean and wipe his existence off the face of the earth. In times like these, there’s no doubt that Castiel is what he proclaims, one of Heaven’s warriors, an Angel willingly living amongst humans.

Admittedly, Dean’s cock agrees, but for all he cares, it can take the night off. More important business to do, like figuring out where the blood is coming from.

The trails lead down the main hallway and out the back door, leading to a screened-in patio, with claw marks in the screen and the door wedged open with a broken lock. Above, the ceiling fans turn, a necktie hanging from one, soaked scarlet all the way to the lamp cover. Gross. “Seriously, if you’re gonna kill someone, clean up a little,” Dean huffs.

At his back, Castiel snorts and stabs the tie, yanking it down with little effort. “I don’t sense anything in the house,” Castiel says at first. The air crackles, though, effectively capturing his attention, and he looks to the mountains, miles and miles of snow separating them from their steady rise.

Dean squints in the dark, through the falling snow and the occasional slivers of moonlight breaking through. Maybe a few hundred feet away, a man trudges through the snowfields, dragging something along heavy with him, several times almost tripping backward over himself. “You seeing this?” Dean asks.

Slowly, Castiel nods, but with scrutiny. “He’s incredibly stupid, I’ll give him that,” he says. His knuckles blanche around his blade, and Dean’s grip tightens in sympathy, his heart in his throat.

This is it—it’s been a year, but the memory of his last encounter still sits fresh in his mind, plaguing him in his quietest moments, where he can thankfully ignore it if he tries hard enough. Now, the thoughts run rampant, and the only thing keeping him from running for the Impala is Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady, grounded. _A rock_ , Dean thinks—the light he’s always needed.

“I’m with you,” Castiel reminds him, his breath warm against Dean’s ear. _Steady, you can do this_. Eyes shut, Dean inhales and holds it, until his heart steadies and his skin doesn’t feel so tight. “Run.”

In the dark, the distance between Dean and the alleged demon feels like miles. Trudging through a sea of white proves treacherous and downright hilarious the way he bounds through the fields, but the snow muffles his footsteps to the point of near-silence. At least, until the demon looks up, previously brown eyes shifting black just before Dean takes a swing. By some miracle, it drops the body it was carrying—a deer, thankfully—and jumps out of the way, just before Castiel surges from around Dean’s back and takes a swing.

Everything happens quickly, after that. Sickeningly so, because one minute, Castiel’s sword is colliding with a silver-edged blade similar to Dean’s, and the next, he’s backing up, clutching the wound on his chest, blue-white spilling into his hand. And then everything stops: the demon stands, bewildered, blinking back and forth between Dean and Castiel; Dean contemplates either throwing up or jamming his blade through its jaw; and Castiel shrieks, loud enough to startle the snow into blustering around them, hard enough to sting.

Dean takes the initiative first, before the demon can flee in their collective terror; blindsiding him topples him into the snow, and stabbing him through the throat sends yellow-gold currents through his body, until his screams diminish and he lays there, dead and prone and not even bleeding. Dead meat suits—hopefully, the original owner didn’t suffer.

“Dean,” Castiel calls, a near-whine, and Dean’s attention snaps back into focus. Dean’s kneeling in the snow, his sword currently lodged in some poor guy’s throat, and Castiel is standing behind him, a gash ripped through his shirt. White blood spills from his wound, and all the while, he doesn’t scream, or even speak. Shock, probably. Can Angels even feel shock?

“Hey, hey,” Dean says, crawling his way to Castiel’s side when Castiel sits with a heavy thud. “Hey, it’s not that bad, let me—”

“He hurt me,” Castiel mutters, equally horrified and fascinated with the turn of events. “Holy shit, Dean—”

“I know, I know.” Gingerly, Dean pulls Castiel’s hand away, pointedly ignoring the Grace-laden blood coating his flesh. Underneath Castiel’s shirt is a moderately sized gaping wound, the edges struggling to knit themselves back to together. Meanwhile, Castiel bleeds, Grace spilling down his stomach and into the waistband of his pants.

 _Please don’t let him die, please_.

“You have to—hold it together,” Castiel gasps, and the tremors kick in almost immediately. This isn’t shock—this is fear. Castiel is dying, and he knows it, and he won’t even mention it to Dean. _No way is he dying_ , Dean decides—there are thousands of better ways to die, and none of them will involve him bleeding to death in Dean’s arms. “Dean, hold the ends together.”

“Lay back,” Dean huffs, steeling himself. He urges Castiel onto his back in the snow, his stomach turning with how easily Castiel goes, practically without a fight. With every breath, more Grace pours free, glowing impossibly bright where his hands touch Castiel’s stomach. “Holy shit man, what’d he get you with?”

“Please don’t ask me that right now,” Castiel sputters. “Dean, this hurts—”

“I know, just hold on.” _Concentrate, Winchester—just do what he says_.

 _Steady_. With both hands, Dean pinches one end of the tear together, the skin mending itself where it meets, not even leaving a scar. Good—if he can do this fast enough, then Castiel won’t have to suffer much longer. As it is, Castiel is barely hanging on, biting his own hand to keep from screaming. Or crying, apparently, from what Dean can see. Tear tracks mar his face, blue eyes bloodshot.

“Come on,” Dean urges, continuing to stitch Castiel’s abdomen with just his fingers. “Come on, don’t make that face, you hear me?”

“Fix it,” Castiel begs. “Please, I don’t want to—”

“Not today.” Gritting his teeth, Dean presses the largest portion of the wound together; after that, Castiel’s Grace takes over, the rest of the gash reconnecting and disappearing under his fingertips, until all that’s left is silver-drenched skin and a torn shirt.

“Shit,” Castiel exhales, his harsh breaths coming out as heavy puffs of mist. His chest heaves, but he’s alive, and if Dean could stop his heart from attempting to flee his body, he’d kiss Castiel just to confirm it.

Castiel is still crying when Dean helps him sit up, seemingly unable to stop, no matter how often Dean tries to wipe his eyes dry. “You’re okay,” Dean says, more of a question than a statement. As far as he can tell, Castiel is fine on the surface, blood no longer seeping from anywhere on his body, but mentally is another question. Right now, they need to call the police about the body they left behind, and Dean needs to get Castiel back to their motel room. Then, they can talk—by god, they need to talk.

Cradling Castiel’s face, Dean waits for the warmth to flood back into his skin, for the tears to stop flowing; the latter won’t cease, at least not for a while. “You’re okay,” Dean repeats, thumbing away the wetness under Castiel’s eyes, threatening to freeze. “You’re okay, you hear me? I got you.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, teeth chattering; without prompting, he falls into Dean’s embrace, burying his face in Dean’s throat. “ _Dean_.”

“I got you,” Dean sighs, holding Castiel closer. “I got you, love.”

-+-

The sun is still below the horizon by the time Dean wakes up the next morning, Castiel’s hair in his mouth and frigid air biting his toes. At some point during the night, Dean forgot to turn on the heater, leaving their motel room freezing, even with the three blankets thrown on top of the mattress. After some wrestling, Dean manages to worm away at least some of the blankets from Castiel, but not after Castiel complains and whimpers pitifully.

“God, you’re bitchy in the morning,” Dean huffs, never quite breaking free of Castiel’s hold. If anything, Castiel clutches him tighter, legs tangled with his own. “Cas, I gotta get the heater going.”

“Don’t want you to go,” Castiel snuffles, tugging Dean closer, until Dean can smell the ozone and dried sweat wafting off him. They both need a shower, and Castiel needs to wash the blood off his skin, already caked in as it is.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean tries again, this time gentler. With some maneuvering, Dean manages to push Castiel away, only to see the look of utter distraught on Castiel’s face, tinged with put-on misery and a pout. _He really is pathetic, sometimes_. “Don’t give me that face.”

“Why don’t you want me anymore?” Castiel whines petulantly, grabbing for the blankets. “I almost died and you’re pushing me out of bed.”

“Because you stink, dude,” Dean laughs. He’s not better off himself, but at least he doesn’t smell like someone tried to gut him. “I’m serious, you reek like a cow field.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, turning onto his side; he reaches for Dean’s hip again, and Dean captures his shoulder, pushing him onto his back. “I don’t think I like you anymore,” Castiel mumbles, but ultimately rolls off to the bed—literally, this time, collapsing with a thud into a musty carpet. “Definitely don’t like you.”

Briefly, Dean glances over the side of the bed to make sure he’s okay, laughing at the face that greets him: utterly pissed, looking halfway to smiting Dean with just a word. “Come on.” Dean offers a hand. In hindsight, he should’ve thought this through, because Castiel yanks him down with little effort, effectively hurling Dean onto the floor, half on Castiel and half face-first into a suspiciously dark stain. “Not what I meant, Cas—”

“If I have to be awake, then so do you,” Castiel growls.

The hot water heater must’ve died sometime within the last few days, because the showerhead only produces lukewarm water, rapidly cooling the longer they both stand there, trying to clean each other off before the last semblance of warmth leaves them. Castiel takes more priority, and Dean cursorily scrubs him down with a bar of soap and his hands, making sure to tend to the remnants of the gash across his stomach, wiping the rest of the blood away.

Castiel watches him all the while, occasionally petting through Dean’s shampoo-laden hair, his hands coming away smelling of fake strawberries. “He had an angel blade,” Castiel comments, turning on his feet when Dean instructs, directly into the spray. “I’ve never… Not even when we battled demons in the past, did they ever manage to injure us.”

“That the first time you’ve had your Grace hit?” Dean asks, ducking his head under the spray when Castiel moves.

Castiel doesn’t answer until after they shut the water off and toweled dry, neither of them bothering to dress for now. Perks of having a boyfriend, Dean guesses; they can walk around nude behind closed doors and no one bats an eye. Or whatever they are to each other, really; they’ve never bothered to talk about it, but since they’ve stuck together for this long, they have to be something to each other, right?

“I’ve been injured in my vessel before,” Castiel mentions while Dean is turning on the heater. “But those have been human wounds, and I’ve always recovered. This, though… I’ve never felt pain like this, Like I was… dying. What does it feel like, to die?”

Dean blinks, shaking off the residual shiver. Not the kind of discussion he’s ever wanted to have, especially after being up to his wrists in Castiel’s guts. “I wouldn’t know,” Dean says in all seriousness. He’s been hurt before, sure, but only once has he ever felt like his life was truly in danger, and that was back in Panama City. “It depends on the person, maybe, or the situation.”

“I felt… cold.” Slowly, Castiel crosses the room with a towel draped around his neck. They gravitate towards each other, like they’re meant to always be in each other’s space, a source of comfort even when they don’t need it. Castiel’s hand trembles against Dean’s hip, fingers digging into his flesh to drag Dean closer. “Like all of the light had disappeared from my eyes, and I thought I wouldn’t get to see you again.”

“Cas,” Dean whispers, his breath hot against Castiel’s hair. “C’mon, it wasn’t that bad. Don’t talk like that.”

“I wouldn’t get to tell you that I loved you,” Castiel continues. Dean’s face flushes, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. Castiel loves him. Castiel loves him? “And I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I never said anything.”

Dean hugs Castiel before he has the chance to anything else, nakedness be damned. “But you’re okay now,” he mumbles against Castiel’s ear, arms tight around Castiel’s neck. Softly, Castiel’s hands linger on the small of Dean’s back, his nails digging into his skin; the sting just drives Dean closer, the pain all the confirmation he needs that Castiel is alive and breathing, and that Castiel isn’t dying in a field, his blood just as white as the snow. “You’re good, you hear me? I’m not gonna let you die, not like that.”

Against his throat, Dean feels Castiel swallow. “Why aren’t you scared?” he asks in all seriousness, and something in Dean’s heart breaks from just how fragile he sounds, how utterly terrified he must be.

The only answer he can come up with, is that he’s experienced death too often to fully comprehend it happening to someone else. Disillusionment, maybe, but the general apathy is more terrifying than the fact that Castiel almost died in his arms less than twelve hours ago. “I just… didn’t process it, I think,” Dean admits. “You’re supposed to be immortal, and then I saw you bleeding, and it didn’t click.” Sluggishly, he pulls back and frames Castiel’s face in his hands, teasing his fingers behind Castiel’s ears. “Were you really… dying?”

“Whatever it was,” Castiel starts, his eyes slipping shut, “I don’t want it to happen again. There’ve been stories about where Angels go when they perish, and I’d rather not sleep in an endless abyss of nothingness.”

 _Ouch_. Not the place Dean would want to spend the rest of eternity in, either. Softly, he presses a kiss to the center of Castiel’s forehead, his stomach turning with the last of his adrenaline waning from his bones. Even asleep, he’d been wired, only relaxing when Castiel was in his arms, and only then. But now, he’s awake and cold from the shower, and Castiel almost died last night, for the first time in his existence.

And all at once, Dean is terrified.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, falling back into Castiel’s embrace, this time with more fervency, like he can’t get closer fast enough. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been watching, I should’ve—”

Panic sets in like a wave, his body shivering, knees threatening to give out; Castiel collapses with him onto the carpet, both of them clutching each other like a lifeline, like it’s the only thing that can keep them stable. _Steady, steady. Breathe_. “I’m here,” Castiel says. “I’m here, love. I’m here.”

“I don’t want you to die either,” Dean sputters, curling into Castiel’s space. “God, we’re a match. Didn’t think I’d ever have to tell you that.”

“I never expected to have a near-death experience,” Castiel concedes. In the shadows, he smiles, just enough to calm Dean’s heart, to soothe the jitters running through him. “Maybe we need to talk, about what this means.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, just as Castiel leans down to kiss him, lips lush and imploring against his own. Just a tease. “Yeah, might be a good thing to do.”

Somewhere along the line, Dean knew that casual sex would leave to something more, and really, he does like Castiel. Probably more than he should, and more than he’s ever loved another person—or creature, apparently—in his life. Whether what he feels is love is the question, but for now, he’ll indulge in Castiel’s kiss and the soft whisper of skin against his own, until the sun rises and they’re forced to dress and brave the snow for food.

The morning can wait—this is all Dean needs.

-+-

For a life spent driving from state to state with nothing but cassette tapes to keep him company, Dean really hates the silence. Not from the radio turned down low, but from Castiel sulking in the passenger seat, his feet for once planted in the floorboards and seatbelt pulled tight around him. His head slumps against the frigid window, every breath steaming up the glass.

He’s been moping for the last day and all through the night, and really, Dean gets it. The first time someone tried to take off Dean’s head, he’d spent the next few days locked in a shoddy motel until he shook some sanity back into his head. But in no way can he compare his experience with a ghoul to Castiel’s run-in with a lowlife demon. The first time in his life that he’s had his Grace attacked, and he’s trapped in his own head, lost to the world.

God, Castiel really is old.

“C’mon,” Dean starts, clearing his throat. Heavy snow falls as they head south, sticking to the wipers no matter how many times Dean runs them. As the hours pass, I-15 turns into a blur of nothing but white and the on-off thrum of the wipers, and Castiel’s even breaths, forming the same cloud again and again on the window. His thigh is strong under Dean’s hand, warm through his jeans.

Petting there garners no reaction. Neither does creeping towards his zipper. For once, Castiel isn’t attempting to jump him in the front seat. Something’s wrong, something more than a near-death experience. “You know you can talk to me, right?” Dean asks, both hands on the wheel as a semi barrels past. “Shit, Cas, you just told me you loved me. Don’t start ignoring me now.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Castiel sighs. He blinks slowly and shuffles, the first movement Dean’s seen of him since they left Livingston this morning. “Am I burdening you?”

Dean nearly hits the brake. Burden? Why at all would Castiel be burdening him? “You know I don’t think that,” Dean assures, looking over to Castiel. Castiel just stares back, sadness in his eyes, like a puppy left on the side of the road. “What’s goin’ on, man?”

“There’s a… mentality,” Castiel says, purely observational. “Among Angels, that if we’re injured, we aren’t to survive. At least, that’s what my siblings always felt. If we were mortally wounded, we were to die with honor, and our Father would give us glory, for we served the Lord as we were designed. But… A demon attacked me.” He laughs, somewhat somber, and turns his eyes to the road. “And I didn’t want to die, because I haven’t felt any connection with Heaven in centuries. I’m an Angel, but… what does it mean, when you can’t go home anymore? When no one looks for you when you’ve left?”

“But Leliel said they knew you were gone,” Dean suggests, earning a disapproving sigh from Castiel. “It’s not like you’re not missed up there.”

“But they haven’t come after me,” Castiel adds. “My own family doesn’t care if I’m gone, Dean. Leliel is the first Angel I’ve seen in decades. I was alone in Heaven, alone and without a home, and then I come here, and I get mauled.” He laughs, wet in his throat; if he starts crying again, Dean might have to pull over just to console himself. “If you weren’t there, I would’ve died, and no one would’ve mourned my death. But… I have you. And I feel… indebted to you now.”

Swallowing, Dean slows down enough to safely pull off into the snow-covered shoulder, allowing a faster car to pass; this time, he doesn’t head back onto the road, instead opting to turn off the engine and let the Impala settle into silence. “You don’t owe me anything,” Dean sighs, unbuckling. Leaning back against the door, he tucks his legs underneath him. “Look, I get it, I do, about not having a home to go home to.”

“You really don’t,” Castiel mutters.

“Maybe not.” Dean shrugs. “But… for the longest time, when I decided to start hunting, my folks wouldn’t let me come back, because I was making a stupid decision. They didn’t wanna see me get hurt, and they didn’t wanna have to bury me because I got gutted somewhere. It’s only been a year or two that they started talking to me again. I worked through college to pay off my loans, knowing the only one who had my back was me.

“It’s just… I know it’s hard. And I can’t imagine what it must be for you being…” Vaguely, Dean gestures to where Castiel’s wings must be, somehow bending the fabric of space just to fit into the car without ripping through the metal. “But you don’t gotta feel like you’re stuck with me, just because I saved you. I know you’re scared, okay? But I’m glad you’re not dead, and I’m glad I was there, because… I don’t think I could live, knowing that out there somewhere, you died alone.”

Looking up from his joined hands, Dean watches Castiel cry, his face pinched in an expression that rips Dean apart, down to his soul. Holding Castiel only makes him weep harder, and he digs his nails into the back of Dean’s jacket, threatening to tear into the cotton. “I’m a pathetic excuse for an Angel,” Castiel says, throat choked around his words. Dean just holds him, his own sadness betraying him, tears muted in Castiel’s hair. “You made me love you.”

“You did that on your own.” Dean hides a smile against Castiel’s forehead, pressing a kiss there. “For what it’s worth, I love you too.”

Abruptly, Castiel jerks back, both hands now on Dean’s hips, knuckles blanched. “You love me?”

And really, Dean couldn’t stop himself if he tried. Being with Castiel is easy, and loving him just comes naturally, almost like breathing. _Maybe it’s supposed to be this way_ , Dean thinks, shyly looking to his lap. _Maybe this is who I’m meant to be with, how I’m meant to feel_. “For a while,” Dean admits, scratching over a spot on his chest. “Didn’t really think about it ’til you said something.”

“You…” Castiel sits for a long, chilly second, all until he surges forwards, both hands to Dean’s face, their lips pressed together. Almost violent, but it tastes like salt, Castiel’s tears unending now, wetting Dean’s cheeks. Still, Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. “You’re impossible, Dean Winchester. Every day, you continue to defy all of what I’ve thought of humanity.”

“Got that goin’ for me.” Dean grins. He initiates their next kiss, but gentler now, nipping at Castiel’s lower lip until Castiel opens to him, the first press of Castiel’s tongue intoxicating. “I’m here, okay?” he says between kisses, snaking an arm around Castiel’s neck. “You could decide you don’t love me anymore, and I’ll still be here.”

“You’d wait for me,” Castiel says, wary. “You’d wait for an Angel?”

Underneath Castiel, Dean nods. “You deserve better than me, but… I can’t help it, what I feel. Kinda think it was always gonna end up like this.”

Castiel’s smile, both wondered and pained, warms Dean’s skin, just from bearing witness. “Promise me you won’t let me die, then,” Castiel says, fitting their hands together, until their palms press flush.

This might be a rite, some sort of Angelic marriage proposal that only Castiel knows about, but Dean can’t bring himself to care regardless; he just fits his fingers between Castiel’s and holds on, melting into Castiel’s kiss. “I won’t let you die if you don’t let me die,” he confirms with a grin. “How’s that?”

Castiel tastes like stale coffee and toothpaste. Somehow, this is meant to be.

-+-

They’re fifteen miles outside of Scipio, Utah when Dean pulls over and shoves Castiel into the passenger door. No finesse, no warning, but Castiel doesn’t complain, so long as Dean touches him with urgency. “Want your cock,” Dean rumbles into the soft skin of Castiel’s throat, hands going for Castiel’s jeans. Castiel captures his lips before he can break away again, both hands in Dean’s hair, tugging it by the roots. “C’mon, Cas, let me—”

“You’re insistent,” Castiel huffs. Still, he parts his legs and lets Dean yank down his fly, lifting up enough for Dean to shove his jeans off his legs, leaving him in only his shoes. Commando—doesn’t he chafe? “You’re only doing this because I cried.”

“Not totally,” Dean laughs, stealing another kiss. “But you do look like you need cheering up.”

Castiel laughs, once, pushing Dean’s head down. “I should be sad more often, then.”

“God, let’s hope not.”

If the Impala was about ten years older, they’d have room for this. As it is, one of Castiel’s legs hangs over the bench into the footwell, and Dean’s not better off, a knee in the leather and the other threatening to fall off and hit the floorboards. But they make it work, to where Castiel’s head can’t be seen by passersby, Castiel lying prostrate across the bench with Dean angling his head in the vee of his thighs.

Here in the night, Dean can concentrate more than he could if they had proper lighting, or a bed, for that matter. The loss of his sight makes him bold, not knowing whether or not Castiel is watching him; based on how insistently Castiel urges Dean’s head towards his crotch, though, is enough of an answer.

Outside, the occasional vehicle passes, oblivious to the midnight black car parked along the shoulder. Inside, Dean sucks Castiel’s cock to the back of his throat while Castiel throws his head back, a drawn-out moan escaping his lips. Castiel is thick, girthy in a way that makes Dean jealous sometimes; Dean can barely get his mouth around him, lips just fitting around the plummy head, precome spilling onto his tongue.

All from touch. The things Dean could do to him when they get to their next hotel.

“Your mouth is perfect,” Castiel comments, winded when Dean sinks lower, the head of Castiel’s cock teasing the back of his throat.

Moonlight frames Castiel’s face, casting the rest of him in shadows; the sight sends a thrill through Dean, to where he’s straining in his jeans, no doubt leaking a wet patch into the fabric. This isn’t about Dean, though. Castiel thrives on touch, needs it to survive sometimes, and the least Dean can do for him is take his mind off the last few days.

Dean pulls off just briefly, long enough to wet Castiel’s cock with his spit, afterwards kissing the slit, where it leaks profusely into his hand. “All wet for me,” Dean purrs, no doubt earning an eye roll from Castiel. “C’mon, tell me how you like it.”

“I’d like you to stop talking,” Castiel protests, shoving Dean’s face down again. Dean can’t argue with that one.

One of the strangest things about Castiel, out of everything else, is how long it can take him to come. Maybe it’s a stamina thing, or just from being an Angel, but Dean’s jaw hurts the more he works at him, lapping at the head of his cock and teasing his foreskin between his teeth, stroking whatever he can’t fit in his mouth with a tight fist. All the while, Castiel holds him by the hair and thrusts up minutely, short gasps breaking free whenever Dean touches him just right, hollows out his cheeks to suck harder, to take him further.

Cradling Castiel’s balls helps speed the process along, though; mouthing at them, even more so, based on how Castiel’s chest suddenly caves at the first touch. Stroking him in quick bursts, Dean takes one into his mouth, his own cock aching with the sounds Castiel makes, just from his lips. He chases them as they draw up, scalding, and Castiel’s cock strains, and precome spills over to wet his fingers, slicking his way.

“C’mon,” Dean urges, pulling away to suck at Castiel’s cock again, tapping the head against his waiting tongue. “C’mon Cas, want you to come on me.”

“Fuck,” Castiel hisses. In haste, Dean shoves Castiel’s shirt up to palm at a nipple, pinching it between his fingers. Castiel only howls louder from the stimulation, and his hips thrust up abortedly, seeking friction, anything to get him off. “Dean, your mouth—”

“I know, I know.” Smirking, Dean kisses his cock again, lapping up every drop of precome. “C’mon, come for me.”

It doesn’t take much convincing after that. The harder Dean sucks at his cockhead, the louder Castiel gets, overshadowing the obnoxiously wet noises Dean makes, the suspension of the car rattling. All the while, Castiel pants Dean’s name and lifts his hips, chasing Dean’s tongue with such a single-minded focus that it always blows Dean’s mind.

“Dean,” Castiel moans, broken, and Dean feels him swell in his mouth, feels him twitch and warm. Castiel spills across his lips and onto his tongue, body convulsing while he comes, knees clamping around Dean’s head, and Dean prides in it, knowing he made Castiel make that noise, he made Castiel come so hard that Castiel couldn’t break away from him.

“Holy shit,” Dean manages after he’s swallowed. “Holy—”

Castiel doesn’t give him the time to collect himself, just surges forward and licks his spend off Dean’s face, then shoves his tongue in Dean’s mouth. His jaw hurts and Castiel is attempting to devour his mouth, but he can do this—he loves this, Castiel’s pleasure roiling through him, all the way to his cock. “Let me get you off,” Castiel begs, practically climbing into Dean’s lap, his cock still half-hard against his stomach. It had to be an Angel thing, then—there’s no other reason why he shouldn’t be soft by now. “Let me—”

“Later,” Dean laughs, patting Castiel’s face. They’ve wasted enough time here, anyway. They can do this right once they get to the hotel, wherever the road takes them. “We got time.”

-+-

Castiel’s mouth feels like heaven—good enough to make Dean forget he just booked a room in Fillmore that smells faintly of mold and that there’s a pregnant spider eyeing him from the corner. He’s still dressed from the waist down, no thanks to Castiel’s glacial pace, but Castiel seems determined to make Dean forget about that, his hands cementing him into the moment, pinning him into the musty mattress.

 _If only this place weren’t such a dump_ , Dean thinks, head thrown back. Castiel’s hand over the bulge in his jeans takes his mind off of that, palm pressing firmly to the line of his cock and stroking; Dean bucks into his hand and moans, reaching up to fist Castiel’s hair, the only thing he can think to hold onto. “Shit, get ‘em off,” Dean pants, meeting Castiel’s lips for the filthiest kiss he can give, all tongue and teeth and heat.

He’s been hard for the last thirty minutes, and Castiel’s hand on his crotch the entire time they drove hasn’t helped matters. Now, Castiel’s not moving fast enough, apparently no longer in the mood to get Dean off quick and easy. “Please,” Dean begs, breaking off into a whine when Castiel fists him through his pants, teeth nipping a mark just below his ear. “Fuck, I’m—”

His cellphone cuts off his orgasm, and so ends what Dean had hoped to be a night of Castiel plowing him into the mattress—he’ll apologize to his balls later.

Reaching for the phone and answering the call, Dean manages, “This is Dean,” eyeing Castiel as he climbs off the bed, sulking into the bathroom with his boxers tented. Whether he’s planning to take care of himself, Dean has no idea, not when a woman’s voice rings through the phone, near hysteric. “Ma’am, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my son,” she bawls, her words drowned out in her tears. “I saw him, but he’s been dead for a year, and I just—Ron said I should call you, if I ever saw—”

“Ma’am,” Dean repeats. He scrubs his face and sits up, glaring pointedly at the closed bathroom door. “Ma’am, is your son hurting anyone?”

She sniffles, breaking into a sob. “He’s not, but I thought he was at peace, and now I keep seeing him, and I think something brought him back—”

“Ma’am, I need you to breathe, okay?” A ghost. So her son is haunting her, but he’s not violent, just… lingering. It’s almost midnight, what is he supposed to do for her right now, though? “Can you tell me where you are?”

“St. George, it’s just on the border of—”

“Arizona, yeah,” Dean sighs. “I’m in Fillmore right now, can I meet you in the morning?”

“Thank you,” she wheezes. Dean holds his phone away while she blows her nose. “I don’t have enough to pay you—”

“Consider it free of charge.” Not the first time he’s done this job for free, but ghosts are run-of-the-mill, a good portion of them just wandering as lost souls with no way of making it to their final destination. Poltergeists and violent spirits, he’ll tack a charge onto. For her, though, as long as she feels peace with her son’s passing, then that’s enough for him. “What’s your name?”

“Lila,” Lila answers, still teary, but just barely holding herself together. “Ron was my husband, you helped us out last year.”

Ron— _Ron_ , right, with the Roc taking roost at the airport across town. Damn thing tried to slice into Dean’s kidneys the moment he got his gun out. Damn good tipper too, if Dean remembers correctly. He also remembers their son, Lance, and how he refused to come out of his room until the last day Dean was there, and how all he wanted was for someone to talk to that wasn’t his parents, about the voices in his head that kept reiterating what he thought were truths, that Lila and Ron didn’t love him, and that he’d never live up to their standards.

He was eleven. In the obituaries a month later, both Ron and Lance died in a helicopter crash. Yet, all Dean can remember of them was how happy they were, and how miserable Lila sounded on the phone after they were buried. She’s hoarser now, unrecognizable; deeply, Dean regrets not keeping in contact.

“I remember,” Dean says, solemn. “I’ll come by in the morning, we can go to the cemetery together?”

“You’re so sweet,” Lila says, laughing a bit. “I just want him to be happy. I couldn’t ever figure out how to help him, but I just want the best for him.”

“I know,” Dean sighs. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Dean,” Castiel calls after Dean hangs up, the phone tossed to the bed. From the bathroom, he walks in with a fucking rattlesnake in both hands, the thing not even bothering to rattle or look any bit alarmed—until it sees Dean, and all bets are off. “She has babies.”

Dean flies off the bed and heads for his suitcase. “Nope,” he squeals, “nope, sleeping in the car.”

-+-

If there’s anything Castiel is good at, it’s bonding with people over the most boring things. In this case, Castiel and Lila spend the entire day chatting about her garden while Dean sits on Lila’s porch swing, watching them prowl around the front yard while Lila rambles on with Castiel as her captive audience. Whether Castiel is humoring her remains to be seen, but Lila could probably care less.

She’s aged since the last time Dean saw her, the lines around her eyes more defined, her sable hair graying in places. She’s beautiful though, like she always has been, if more somber, wiser. The summer Dean met her, she’d worn strictly sundresses and a straw hat, just because she could; now, she dons a yellow plaid overshirt and jeans, her boots dirty with mud. Puddles of snow melt across her yard, and a warm breeze blows through the streets, thawing Dean’s perpetually cold bones.

They’ve escaped the weather, at least for now; if they keep traveling south, they may be able to break out the shorts. The Grand Canyon is five hours away, if Castiel wants to go. A few nights in Flagstaff, days spent hiking the trails until Dean is tired and Castiel flies him back to the car—it doesn’t have to be a dream, anymore.

“You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” Lila says around three that afternoon, and Dean’s stomach answers for him. Anything sounds good right now, after living off fast food for the last week. “Your friend’s a real hoot, Dean.”

Dean snorts, planting his feet on the porch. “He’s a real handful,” he admits with a grin; behind Lila, Castiel smirks. “You want us to help?”

Lila nods, reaching for the screen door. “If you’d like. You boys like pie for dessert?”

Castiel laughs, just as Dean’s mouth starts to salivate. “You’re speaking Dean’s language now.”

None of them talk about Lance’s ghost, despite Dean spotting him through the halls numerous times, always lingering in doorways, half visible but silent. Several times, Castiel spots him as well, and while Lila is setting the table, he pulls Dean aside into a spare bedroom, far enough away that Lila can’t hear them. “I can take his soul to Heaven,” he offers. Dean’s heart suddenly hurts. “Your method includes digging graves, but what if I saved you the trouble?”

“That’s…” A good idea, really. Saves Dean the trouble of breaking his back just to burn some bones. “What if you don’t come back though? What if you can’t?” he asks instead, leaning against a wall, just to keep his knees from giving out. “I mean, you got here on a fluke, but what…”

Gently, Castiel palms Dean’s shoulder, his pinky teasing just under the sleeve of Dean’s shirt. “We can leave Heaven whenever we choose, Dean. I don’t have to be summoned just to come back.”

“But what if you can’t?” Dean asks again, watery this time.

Arms around himself, he looks down, ashamed at how he’s reacting to this. He’s not a child, for Christ’s sakes; he can deal with someone leaving him, even if it’s for five minutes. But Castiel is an Angel, and Angels are an entire realm of possibilities Dean can’t even fathom most days. What if Castiel gets stuck, and Dean has to summon him, or worse, live without him until he gets himself killed?

Castiel peeks around the corner before he sneaks in a kiss, and Dean would be horrified if he weren’t elated. “I’m not saying goodbye,” he says, stroking down Dean’s arm. “All I’m saying is that I’ll take him to his Heaven, and I’ll come home. It shouldn’t be longer than a day.”

Despite himself, Dean laughs under his breath. “This is your home now? Earth?”

Another kiss. Dean’s eyes slip closed, resting his hand on Castiel’s hip. “You’re my home.”

“Good,” Dean sputters, unexpectedly giddy. It’s only then that something frigid touches his free hand, and his breath comes out in a sudden mist, wafting off Castiel’s face.

Lance. Still the same kid Dean knew, still dressed in a plain shirt with a too-large overshirt hanging off of him, with the same wide blue eyes and even wilder hair. “Is it true?” Lance asks in a tinny voice, looking up to Castiel. “Can you take me home?”

Castiel nods, unexpectedly stern. “Would you like to say goodbye to your mom first?”

Slowly, Lance nods, his chest deflating in a sigh neither of them can feel. “I miss my mom.”

“I know,” Dean says, head hung low, Lance’s fingers between his. “She misses you too.”

-+-

Their reunion is bittersweet, and Dean’s original promise to himself not to cry goes out the window the minute Castiel takes Lance’s hand. Lila kneels before where Lance stands, his body occasionally flickering, but he’s still solid enough to be visible.

“Daddy misses you too,” Lance says, still glancing down at the floor. “He tried to call you.”

“I know,” Lila says, smiling in her despair. “I know, honey.”

“When will you come see us?” Lance asks.

Dean covers his mouth, his eyes betraying him once again; he swears, he’s cried more in the last few days than he has in his entire life.

Lila extends a hand, allowing Lance to touch her palm, his hand barely half her size. If only he would’ve lived. “It won’t be long now,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Just a few more years. Can you wait for me?”

Lance nods, worrying his lip between his teeth. “I’ll wait for you with daddy.”

“I know.” With waning enthusiasm, Lila grins. “I love you, honey.”

This time, Lance can actually wave goodbye. Castiel’s departure, unlike his arrival into Dean’s life, is quiet, accompanied only by wingbeats and feathers on the floorboards. It takes Lila another few minutes to say anything, giving Dean time to gather the feathers and shoves them in his pants pockets. At least, the smaller ones; the largest one, equally the size of his femur, will have to sit in the backseat.

“So… he’s really an Angel?” Lila asks, fishing for the tissue box beside the couch.

At first, Lila hadn’t believed either of them, and only after Castiel had revived a dying hydrangea had she accepted it, her overt trust of Castiel skyrocketing in that one moment. After dinner, they’d talked it over, discussed what the plan was, and while they waited for Lance to appear, Dean fought off the sadness in the heart, for Castiel’s departure and the family in his care, both past and present. Castiel will be back, he knows, but he feels his absence all the same, like part of his soul is missing while he’s gone.

“I wasn’t expecting someone like him, either,” Dean laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s goin’ through a bit of a rough patch right now, but we’ve been friends for… God, it feels like forever.”

Softly, Lila smiles. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods, scuffing his shoes on the carpet. “Kinda gotta care for your boyfriend.”

At that, Lila’s eyes go wide—not out of fear, but more from wonder. “Really?” she says, incredulous. “That’s allowed?”

Dean shrugs, smiling despite himself. “Seeing as I haven’t gotten struck by lightning, I think I’m doing just fine.”

-+-

It’s… weird, to be alone, Dean thinks. For the last three months, he’s woken up to Castiel snoring in his face, and now, all he can hear is the hum of the Impala’s engine and his tape deck playing low. No idle conversation, no innuendos thrown around just because Castiel can’t keep his hands to himself.

No, it’s the first solitary drive Dean has taken since the church in New Mexico, and it just doesn’t feel right. The streetlights pass as the hours tick on, until the road begins to wind and hook and Dean has to use the high beams just to avoid driving off a cliff. Flagstaff is only six hours from St. George, but in the mess of mountain roads and melting snow, it feels like an eternity before he sees another car, or another person.

The attendant at the Baymont Inn is half asleep when Dean checks in, completely oblivious to Dean’s heartache. But, Dean never really expected condolences, anyway.

It’s not like Castiel is gone, but the more the night drags on, the more Dean doubts his return. What if Castiel lands in the wrong place? Dean should’ve stayed in St. George, then at least he could’ve found Castiel without having to look so hard. They’ve only been to Flagstaff once, and just for a night. Castiel doesn’t know the roads around here, and unless he can track Dean’s location, there’s no way they’ll see each other again.

 _He’ll find me_ , Dean tells himself, scowling as he drags himself onto the elevator. At this time of night, he can’t find anyone in the halls, or hear any noises coming from the third floor. His room is at the back end of the hotel, the last door at the end of the hall, the light outside flickering every five seconds, like an omen. Hiding a yawn behind his fist, Dean can’t find it in himself to be bothered either way; if something is planning to kill him, it can at least wait until he’s slept a few hours.

The room smells of stale soap, but at least it’s better than the last few hotels he’s stayed in. No stains on the floor, no mold in the ceiling, no black rings around the bathtub; for the money, it’s nice. Quaint; maybe he should stay in places like this more often. Even the mattress is intact, the sheets freshly laundered. Through the window, the moon faintly glows through the clouds, and strangers drive past on the highway where he can see around the trees.

It’ll do for the night. Unless Dean can find something to work on tomorrow, he might stay here for a few days, drive up to the Grand Canyon on his own. For the first time in a long, long while, he’s alone, and utterly unaware of what to do with himself for the time being. What did he do before Castiel? What is he supposed to do after?

Cold air seeps through the single pane window throughout the night. Dean sleeps easy, albeit restless, curling further into the bedding to escape the chill, despite the heater by the window trying its best to do something other than sputter. No unusual creaks coming from the halls when he does wake, no strange voices or banging on doors, nothing but silence and his own breathing.

“Being alone sucks,” he decides and covers his face with a pillow.

Morning comes, and with that also is arguably one of the best showers of his life. Anything with actual water pressure is good enough for him, especially if he can wash his hair without catching it in his hands first. There are only so many days he get away with water hoses behind gas stations and dry shampoo before he starts to itch; thankfully, it doesn’t get that bad that often, but the memories still haunt him of the few times between hunts when he couldn’t afford even the cheapest motel, and couch surfing wasn’t an option.

 _I should really settle down_ , Dean thinks with a sigh. He still hasn’t made it back to Kansas yet, not with the sudden influx of calls at every turn, always leading him in the opposite direction. He’ll make it there some day, but when that’ll be is the question he can’t answer.

Dean smells like cucumbers by the time he pulls himself from the sanctuary of the shower, afterwards toweling himself dry. His hair sticks up in every direction when he’s done, grown in too long behind his ears and curling a bit at the ends; his clippers are in the trunk, but based on the snow beginning to fall in the courtyard, he won’t be going anywhere for a while.

He must’ve done something wrong in a past life, or pissed off a weather spirit, because he doesn’t deserve to be followed by snow wherever he goes. “Better fuckin’ stop sometime,” Dean mumbles to himself, gathering his clothes in one hand. There’s a laundromat down the street that he plans to camp out in, and all day if he has to, if it means he can stop wearing his briefs inside out. Just thinking about it makes him itch.

 _Jesus, I really have let myself go_.

Outside of the bathroom, his room remains just as empty as it was before, only with rumpled sheets and his suitcase spilling out onto the floor. It’s not until a hand collides with his shoulder that he realizes that he isn’t alone, and he probably hasn’t been, not since the light began to flicker outside. Someone—or something—pushes him into the mattress in all his naked glory, and with the sun beginning to pour in through the blinds, Dean’s heart skips at the sight of the perpetrator.

“Cas,” he stammers, immediately flattening into the bedding. Only, Castiel doesn’t speak. In his hand, he holds the blade he originally gave to Dean, his other shoving him down by the shoulder. He should be scared—should be absolutely terrified, but something in Castiel’s expression is soft, if not imploring. A question— _do you want this_? _Do you want me_? “What’re you—”

“All you’ve thought about for the last twelve hours is me,” Castiel rumbles, his voice even deeper than Dean remembered. Shifting closer, he pins Dean’s legs open with his knees, until Dean is practically straddling his waist, feet hanging in the open air. “Was it that much of a test, to be separated like that?”

“I missed you,” is all Dean says. Relief floods him when Castiel leans down to kiss him, lush and deep and everything Dean missed. “Felt like a teenager, just couldn’t stand it.”

“I couldn’t either,” Castiel admits. He sets the blade down if only for a minute, too preoccupied with kissing Dean to do much else; why does he have it in the first place? “My siblings wanted to talk to me.”

Castiel runs his palm down the length of Dean’s torso, and Dean throws his head back, lips parted. “Yeah?” Dean pants, reaching for Castiel’s shoulders. “What’d they want?”

“They smelled the humanity on me,” Castiel muses. “They wondered if I had fallen for a mortal.”

Dean chuckles, his amusement cut off when Castiel reaches for the sword again, grabbing it by the blade. “Though we’d established you’d already fallen for me,” he says with a wink. Castiel bows his head and laughs. “What’re you gonna do with that?”

“This?” Sitting upright, Castiel holds up the sword, the sunlight gleaming off the silvered surface. “I was planning to fuck you with it, but if you don’t want to—”

Dean chokes, all of the blood in his body rushing to his face. The sword—with the sword? “Dude,” he sputters, opting to watch Castiel remove his shirt; his brain stopped functioning somewhere along the line, and even if he came up with words, he doesn’t think he could get them out. “Isn’t that—you’re gonna— _what_?”

“It’s moderately blasphemous, but nothing either of us will die over,” Castiel hums. “I’ve heard it can be a religious experience.”

Dean was wrong—Castiel is going to kill him, but not in the way Dean expected him to. Granted, both ways involve that blade inside of him in some manner. “Anyone ever tell you you’re gonna be the death of me?” he attempts, his words coming out higher pitched than he’s ever heard himself.

Any reply Dean might’ve wanted to add after that ends up thrown to the wayside with the sight of four wings spilling from between Castiel’s shoulders, all inky black with his feathers catching the morning sun. Four—“You got a promotion?”

“Did I?” Castiel asks, blasé, looking over his shoulders. “Oh, it appears I did.”

“You little shit,” Dean laughs, louder now, falling flat into the mattress. “Fuck, you got a promotion, and you weren’t gonna tell me.”

“The Angels seem to believe I’ve done some good deeds while I’ve been here,” Castiel says. Tugging Dean’s hips closer, he sets the sword down again and reaches behind his back, until his fingers come away slick and smelling faintly of musk; Dean almost chokes on the scent, not at all pleasant. “I have heart, or so Leliel told me. They were very insistent, and they said your soul was beautiful. ‘The most beautiful human I’ve seen,’ Leliel said.”

“You’ve said the same thing,” Dean says with a smirk. Castiel taps his cheek with his soaked fingers— _yeah, that reeks_. “Dude, what is that?”

“You may need a shower after this,” is all Castiel says, before he’s rubbing his fingers between Dean’s legs, one sliding inside with little effort.

Only when Castiel is spreading him open does Dean realize what he’s doing, aside from prepping, anyway. Castiel is marking him, using whatever oils he’s producing from his wings to effectively spread his scent in as deep as he can, with one finger, then two. And strangely, Dean wants more of it, the heat from Castiel’s fingers heightened now, possibly by the oil, but more from multiple aborted orgasms over the last few days.

“God, you better let me get off this time,” Dean huffs, wincing when Castiel pulls out to rewet his fingers. Castiel’s wings twitch, black feathers scraping the walls, one wing smashed against the window and rucking up the curtains. A third finger slips in, all three tucked in close and curled, pressing insistently at Dean’s prostate, and Dean physically convulses, his cock twitching against his stomach. “Holy _fuck_ , what’re you doing—”

Sadistically, Castiel grins, all teeth. “You’ve accepted my scent.”

“ _God_ ,” Dean moans, both hands in his hair.

He really is going to die here, Castiel’s fingers in his ass and a hand to his stomach, keeping him from bucking up, and it’ll all be Castiel’s fault. Whatever ‘accepting his scent’ means, Dean doesn’t want to know, but if it means he can come faster, then Castiel can do whatever he wants. His balls ache just thinking about it.

And then comes the blade, the one thing Dean forgot about in the last few minutes. Briefly, Dean mourns the loss of Castiel’s fingers before they’re replaced with the cold silver of the sword’s handle, slicked with Castiel’s oils and impressively thick. Not as good as Castiel’s cock, but it’s solid and warm, the tapered head sliding in easily.

At some point, Castiel shifts to lie at Dean’s side, one arm snaked underneath his head, pulling him close. A familiar position, one Castiel likes to pull him into when he’s more interested in getting Dean off than he is himself, but it’s one that Dean secretly loves. Here, he can kiss Castiel while Castiel fucks him with the sword’s handle, his hips chasing it ever time Castiel pulls out, the flared tip catching on his rim. In the crease of his hip, Dean’s cock spurts precome profusely, fat trails of it spilling down his flank.

“You’re so wet,” Castiel praises, kissing the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean whines against his lips, one hand grabbing Castiel’s thigh, just for something to hold onto. “Do you want me to fuck you after you come? You’ve never let me fuck you bare.” Involuntarily, a shiver runs through Dean; Castiel must notice, because he fucks the handle in harder, and Dean bites his hand to keep from shouting. No one needs to hear this—no one but Castiel. “Let me come in you, Dean—let me make you mine.”

“Please,” Dean begs, breathless and tense, stripping his cock in quick bursts. The wave crests all too soon, but Castiel holds him through it and swallows Dean’s moans as Dean comes, cock spurting thick trails up his stomach and to his chest, until he’s spent and he can breathe again, the need sated.

His limbs unlock as he comes down, the fire formerly burning between his legs unpleasantly extinguished; the smell of Castiel’s oils hits him again, and Dean scrunches his nose, earning a laugh from Castiel. “You reek, dude.”

All Castiel does is grin, eventually pulling the blade free—God, he’s pretty sure dildos don’t feel this weird—and sliding off the bed to pull his jeans off. “No one said we were perfect,” Castiel says once they’re on the floor, his cock jutting up from between his legs. Dean’s mouth waters just looking at him, his stomach twisting pleasantly; his toes curl, and Castiel grabs his feet, running his hands down to cup the underside of Dean’s knees. “I’ll get you to groom me after we’re done.”

“Groom you?” Dean asks. How in the world was he supposed to groom an Angel? “What, like, all of them?”

Castiel shrugs. “I wouldn’t ask you if I could do it myself. I’ve never tended to more than two before.”

Right, yeah. Dean can understand that, trying to navigate around two extra appendages that’ve never been touched before, let alone… finger massaged, or whatever Castiel does to them. An odd thrill runs through him, and his fingers itch to touch— _not now_. Right now, Castiel is busy pushing Dean’s knees to his chest, and all Dean can concentrate on is the blunt press of Castiel’s cock against his rim, shoving inside and— _oh_.

He only came just a minute before, but Dean swears he could again, from just Castiel’s cock and nothing more. It’s never been like this, at least not without a condom, but Dean hasn’t had sex with anyone other than Castiel for the past few months, and the last time he’d been tested, he was clean. Angels don’t carry anything, do they? Can Angels get men pregnant? God, they should’ve discussed this, Dean should’ve asked—

But then Castiel moves, and Dean is lost.

Castiel thrusts like an animal, keeping Dean spread at his leisure and fisting the bedspread at either side of Dean’s shoulders; all the while, Dean clutches the arches of Castiel’s wings and fights off the strain in his thighs, moaning wildly in the scant space between them. He’s thicker than Dean remembers, every vein and divot magnified with his thrusts, the head of his cock intent on nailing Dean’s prostate every time he moves. Between them, Dean fists himself, panting when he feels himself hardening again, and if anything, it only makes Castiel wilder, Castiel’s moans coming out as growls, teeth bared.

After that is a blur, all a flurry of wings and limbs and Dean biting his lip to just keep from screaming. Both of Castiel’s uppermost wings dig firmly into the mattress and Castiel bites his neck—fucking _bites_ , damn near breaking the skin—and all at once, Dean’s blood burns, his voice foreign to his ears, his body equally as distant. This must be like ecstasy, Dean thinks, head thrown back, hands falling to his sides; this must be what it’s like to commune, or to feel the basest euphoria known to man. All pain ceases, his lungs refuse to breathe, his vision goes black, and all he can feel is Castiel coming inside him, and he tumbles over as well, almost as an afterthought.

Yet overhead, he can see them—both of them, in the midst of some strange out of body experience that lets him see all of the feathers in Castiel’s wings fanned out and trembling, and his own orgasm, his mouth agape and eyes pinched shut. Not necessarily the prettiest of faces, but Dean can’t help himself, not when it feels this good. The world could end for all he cared, and this is the moment he would die in, in paradise in Castiel’s arms. _Loved_.

He just watched himself come untouched—that should be more shocking than it is.

The comedown is harder this time, just from having to physically return to his skin; Castiel holds Dean until he’s whole again, stroking his face and kissing him, easing the life back into his skin. “What’d you do?” Dean slurs, reaching up to rub his eyes. He ends up somewhere north of that, his arms apparently rubber. _I must be high_.

Castiel smiles against his temple, pressing a kiss there; Dean chases it, a smile on his lips. “I shared my Grace with you,” he says, leaning down to kiss the bite mark on Dean’s throat, until the sting dissipates and all Dean can feel is an ever-present ache, all the way to his soul. “How was it?”

“Do it again,” Dean chuckles, covering his face. “You try to mate me or somethin’?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Only then does Castiel pull out— _how long has he been inside me_?—and lay at Dean’s side. Faintly, Dean feels Castiel’s come escape his rim, just enough to heat his cheeks. They did that—Castiel came inside him, and all Dean can think about is how soon he can get Castiel to fuck him again. “Angels can’t mate humans. I may have gotten… overzealous, though. Did I hurt you?”

“Nah.” Shifting, Dean rolls onto his side, and incidentally butts Castiel’s forehead with his own. _Smooth, Winchester_. “Liked that.”

“Good.” Leaning up, Castiel kisses his forehead, and Dean practically melts. He sighs, deep, and lets Castiel hold him, two wings spread over his body, the other two probably crammed against a wall. “Wings are incredibly sensitive when they’re new. If you took advantage of that, I wouldn’t say no.”

Castiel winks, and Dean just laughs, loud and high pitched; he’ll take him up on that, no doubt.

-+-

The cold air lingers the next day, but at least the snow’s stopped, Dean thinks. Looking down at his coffee, he dares a glance up at Castiel, who’s currently slicing a stack of pancakes in half with his fork. His promotion looks good on him; he carries himself broader now, and walks like the world should recognize who he is, just because he has four wings. It’s cute, really, how hard he tries; at least Dean is there to appreciate him, and likewise.

“I’m not sure how much of this weather I can take,” Castiel mumbles around his pancakes, reaching for the syrup. “How do you stand it, winter?”

Dean smirks around the lip of his mug, taking a sip. “Layers, man. Never can have too many layers.”

“You’re looking more and more like a lumberjack by the day,” Castiel mentions. Dean muffles his amusement in a cough. “What are you wearing, three jackets?”

“I’ll have you know,” Dean stops to point, “that this is my winter ensemble.” Said ensemble includes a trench coat, a heavier flannel and a Henley, and an undershirt just to cut off the chill. Meanwhile, Castiel threatened to drag the bedspread with him out of the motel this morning—who’s the bigger baby, here?

“I saw you wear half of that in hundred-degree heat,” Castiel throws back, lips ticking up at the edges. “You shouldn’t hide yourself. You have beautiful scars.”

Three months—three months they’ve been together, and Castiel still manages to make him blush over the most innocent of things. Not that scars are innocent, but they’re… private. If Dean had the choice, he’d get rid of them, or at least use every tube of scar cream he can find. “You’re just saying that because I’m pretty,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Underneath the booth, Castiel nudges both of Dean’s feet, hooking his shoes around the back of Dean’s ankles. “Beautiful,” Castiel reminds him. God, he really does remember everything, does he?

Reluctantly, Dean nods. They sit in silence for a while, and Dean watches Castiel devour his breakfast, oblivious to any and all attention paid to him. Dean ate at the motel and stocked up on muffins, but Castiel wanted pancakes, practically clinging to Dean’s back until he agreed. _I really am a pushover sometimes_ , Dean thinks, rubbing his eyes.

It’s only seven in the morning. They should’ve slept more, but they need to get back on the road today—where to, is what he wants to know.

“This is gonna sound stupid,” Dean starts, reaching for his wallet. From the change pocket, he pulls out a quarter and sets it between them, eagle-side up. “I don’t wanna go home yet, but I also don’t wanna go west.”

“So you want the coin to decide?” Castiel asks.

“Kinda.” Dean shrugs. “Can you blame me for being terrified of going back home to my folks?”

“You’re scared they’ll disown you,” Castiel assumes.

They’ve already had this discussion before, but talking it over doesn’t make it any better, and neither does thinking about it every time they head anywhere close to Kansas. How they’ll react to Castiel is a mystery in and of itself, but at some point, he’ll have to go home and face them, just to get it over with. He hasn’t seen his parents in two, going on three years, and his brother even longer. _Face the music_ , he tells himself bitterly. _Sitting on it’s only gonna make it worse_.

“I’m just freaked, okay?” Sighing, Dean bows his head and clasps his hands over his neck. “It’s either put it off or go somewhere else. You wanted to go to California, and we keep getting sidetracked.”

“Just because we haven’t made it there doesn’t mean I haven’t enjoyed myself,” Castiel offers. He takes one of Dean’s hands and places it on the table, covering it with his own. “You’re thinking too much. That’s your problem, that you overthink and you talk yourself out of things before they’ve even started.”

“I know,” Dean nods, his heart not even in it to fight Castiel on it.

Hunting is one thing. He can hunt, and he can drive, because it’s not personal to him. Sure, he puts his heart and soul into saving whoever he can, but it’s not the same as his family. The ones who raised him, drove him to and from school every day, kept him on track through college. What if coming out ruins everything? What if just having Castiel in the room is enough for his father to lose his temper one more time?

 _What if they won’t love me anymore because of it_?

“Stop.” Abruptly, Castiel taps the back of Dean’s palm, catching his attention. “What did I tell you?”

“You told me a lot of things,” Dean sidetracks.

Castiel hums, low in his throat, almost a growl. “I told you I loved you, and I’ll stand by your side, whatever you want to do. If you want to go to California, then we’ll drive, and we’ll get there on our own time. If you want to go home, then I’ll stay with you.”

“And if things go south?” Looking up, Dean spots the utterly earnest expression on his face, the love in his eyes. He still can’t believe it, that a creature of this magnitude, wings and all, loves him, and Dean can’t help but feel the same. “If things go bad…”

“Then I’ll protect you,” Castiel affirms. “There’s nothing that could drive me away from you. Not even this.”

“God.” Shaking his head, Dean chuckles. “God, sometimes you’re too good for me, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Castiel smirks. “I’m much more than my sexual prowess.”

Mug to his lips again, Dean almost snorts his coffee. “Guess you’re not just a dick after all.”

Castiel smiles ever so slightly, a challenge that Dean intends to meet. Nimbly, Castiel reaches for the quarter and props it up on his thumb. “We’ll decide then,” he announces. “Heads is Kansas, tails is California. Whatever happens, happens.”

Slowly, Dean nods. _Whatever happens, happens_. “Then do it.”

Castiel moves before Dean can even think to back out, the quarter hitting the vinyl tabletop half a second later; it spins before it settles, landing square on Washington’s head.

Kansas—they’re going to Kansas. They’re actually doing this. “Home it is, then,” Dean says in disbelief.

Again, Castiel takes his hand. This time, Dean never intends to let go. “Home it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! Only six months in the making, I guess? King of the Road is now part of a series! There'll be another one after this at some point, so I hope this is a good addition to the first one? This took about a week, possibly two? The wonders I can do when I'm procrastinating! 
> 
> I hope y'all like it! Also let me know what you think of the new layout, I really dig it :D
> 
> Title is from the Randy Travis song. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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